


A Whisper To A Riot

by feathers_and_cigarettes



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Deaf Clint Barton, Explicit Sexual Content, Goddammit There's Feelings In My Porn, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Overprotective Bucky Barnes, Sign Language, Sniper Buddies, competent clint barton, timelines what timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes/pseuds/feathers_and_cigarettes
Summary: Clint shuffles over and flops down uncomfortably close to Bucky with half a bagel stuffed into his cheeks like a goddamn chipmunk. “Would you rather vacation on a tropical island or like, I dunno, France or some shit?”Bucky pauses, his brain trying to catch up but only registering that Clint looks kind of adorable and now’s not really the time nor the place for that kind of bullshit. “Would Iwhat?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 24
Kudos: 343





	A Whisper To A Riot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheShorty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShorty/gifts).



> For Shorty! I'm so sorry how long it's taken to finish this beast, but I really hope you enjoy it and that it was worth the wait! 
> 
> Thanks as always to the Murder Wife, [Sevdrag](http://sevdrag.tumblr.com) for yelling at me and catching my tense agreements.

Bucky’s going to kill him.

They’ve only been on surveillance for three hours and Clint’s already eaten all his snacks – and gone pawing through Bucky’s kit bag – and attempted to play “I Spy” seventeen times. Bucky’s not sure how Nat’s survived this long without strangling Clint, because he’s about four seconds away from pushing the moron off the roof and blaming leftover Winter Soldier fuckery.

_“Barton? Oh, yeah, tragic, Stevie. He must’ve tripped some leftover trigger words we haven’t found yet.”_

Of course, he can’t joke about that shit, not with Steve. The meathead would have an aneurysm if Bucky even hinted at using humour to deal with his trauma. The irony is Clint’s probably the only one who’d find the thought hilarious.

“Hey, Buck?”

Christ, just two minutes of silence is all he asks. Bucky sets his jaw and continues cleaning his Glock, the steady, mindless work keeping him grounded.

Clint shuffles over and flops down uncomfortably close to Bucky with half a bagel stuffed into his cheeks like a goddamn chipmunk. “Would you rather vacation on a tropical island or like, I dunno, France or some shit?”

Bucky pauses, his brain trying to catch up but only registering that Clint looks kind of adorable and now’s not really the time nor the place for that kind of bullshit. “Would I _what?_ ”

“France or tropical island,” Clint repeats, his words muffled through the bagel. “Pick one.”

If he uses his left arm, he can definitely pitch Clint over the side of the building from here. Really, he should just ignore him. Sure, it won’t totally stop Clint’s squirrel-like attention span, but it’d maybe buy him a few minutes as Clint’s brain darts to another topic he’s got burning questions about.

“Like, alone? What type of vacation we talkin’ here?” is what comes out of his mouth instead, because Bucky Barnes is an idiot when it comes to Clint Barton.

Clint shrugs, pokes at the pieces of Bucky’s pistol until he’s shooed away. “I dunno, whatever you want. Fancy honeymoon, relaxing solo trip, Spring Break, doesn’t matter. What would you pick?”

An image of Clint lounging on the beach comes to mind immediately, a sunkissed expanse of skin just begging for Bucky to taste. He’s not sure all the sand would be great for his arm, but hey, it’s a fantasy he’s allowed to explore. Clint’s lips would be salty from the ocean, warm from the sun, and Bucky’d spend hours just kissing him and –

“Buck? You okay, man?”

Bucky gives himself a mental shake and pointedly looks away from Clint’s lips. “Yeah, sure,” he stammers, trying to play it cool. “I dunno, I guess France sounds good. See some art, maybe.”

Clint makes a noise and Bucky’s not sure whether it’s approving or not. “Okay, points for classy, didn’t see that comin’. You got a lady friend you’d wanna impress?”

Now _that’s_ definitely not where Bucky was going. Where’d he get that-

“Or dude. You know I don’t judge.”

Oh. Bucky fights the urge to roll his eyes and throws his rag at Clint’s face. “Why the hell does everyone think me and Stevie were bumpin’ uglies?”

The rag’s confiscated quickly and stuffed into Clint’s utility belt. He sticks his tongue out at Bucky and checks his phone. “Uh, you said you wanted to go look at art, man; no one wants to do that unless their name is Steve Rogers. Plus you guys had the whole ‘with you till the end of the line’ schtick and dude, I _know_ what happens in foxholes stays in foxholes, but c’mon.”

“We were just friends,” Bucky says, exasperated. “He’s like my kid brother, ain’t nothin’ like that.”

“Big, dumb, and blond not your type?” Clint asks with a grin.

“No, I –“ Bucky bites his tongue, swallows down the words. Big, dumb, and blond is _totally_ his type, but he can’t say that, not here. “No. It’s Steve, man. Never thought about him like that and I don’t want to.”

Clint shrugs and looks away, a curious expression crossing his face. “Was just wondering. All those comics from back in the day depicted you two as pretty close and I mean, you gotta admit, Steve’s pretty hot.”

“You had the comic books?” Oh God, that means Clint knew about him way before they even met. Did he live up to Clint’s expectations? What the fuck was even _in_ those comics anyway?

“Oh, yeah, I hoarded that shit. Primo spank bank material,” Clint replies with a leer and a wink. “Playboys were a scarce commodity, a boy’s gotta make do.”

Bucky’s not sure if he should be mildly turned on or significantly offended – on Steve’s behalf, of course. A part of him is even jealous that he’s no longer the one drawing everyone in, as happy as he is for Stevie. It’s petty, sure, but even with his memory as hazy as it is, he can’t remember being as sweet on anyone as he is on Clint. It smarts a bit hearing about his obvious attraction to Steve.

Instead of responding, he wrinkles his nose and shifts away from Clint to check their target. Something’s gotta go down, and fast, before the surveillance run gets any more awkward. “France,” he repeats firmly. “I like cities. I like watching people, learning about different cultures. Just seems like it’d be nice to go when I’m not, y’know, tryin’ to kill anyone.”

“That’s fair,” Clint says with a thoughtful nod. “A lot of people from the city don’t like to leave it, I noticed. I dunno if it’s the noise or the smell or whatever the fuck.”

Bucky looks back at him, curious. “You don’t like the city? Bed-Stuy’s fragrant aroma ain’t doin’ it for you anymore?”

Chuckling, Clint shifts, stretching his long legs out in front of him and resting back on his elbows. “Nah, man, I’m a farm boy at heart. Gimme clean air and open spaces any day of the week,” he replies, face twisting to a half smile. “I mean, I love people; I love trying to figure out their stories and watching my tenants and shit, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes, I don’t know, man. I miss the quiet, I guess.” He glances at Bucky, almost embarrassed. “Probably weird comin’ from the deaf guy, huh?”

The moonlight’s hitting Clint’s face and it momentarily takes Bucky’s breath away. He swallows a few times, looks down at his pistol, lets his hair fall into his face to hide whatever must be visible. He used to know how to do this shit, how to flirt, how to get anyone he wanted into bed – hell, he used to be able to hide his expressions perfectly, like a mask of stone. Now though, he’s awkward and bumbling and nothing sounds right in his head.

Clint must take his silence for something else though, and a blush rises to his cheeks. He gestures at his ears, his usual bright purple aids replaced by tiny black StarkTech stealth ones that double as a comm unit. “No matter how fancy these are, no matter how high tech, I don’t hear things the way everyone else does. If there’s too much background noise, too many people talking at once, I can get lost. It gets… I dunno, tiring, I guess. Tryin’ to follow everything if there’s a lot going on. Sometimes living in the city can get to be a lot.”

And just like that, Bucky feels horrible. He’s made fun of Clint enough for appearing to space out during meetings and debriefs, for making paper airplanes and generally being a pain in the ass. He’d never given much thought to Clint’s deafness except to start learning ASL and making sure he was facing him when he spoke.

He sets his pistol aside, watching Clint bite the inside of his lip and look away. He’s familiar with this way of appearing to be nonchalant, hell, he does it all the time whenever he’s trying to gloss over a sensitive subject. Bringing his hands up, he makes sure Clint can see him use his name sign and asks if he’d rather sign than speak.

Clint smiles again, that tiny, faint quirk of his lips that’s his genuine smile, not just when he’s being a shithead. He reaches out, taking Bucky’s hands in his own and makes a small adjustment. “You ain’t bad for a beginner,” he murmurs, his hands lingering just a little too long on Bucky’s, letting his fingers trail along Bucky’s palms.

“I wouldn’t object to some lessons, if you’ve got the time,” Bucky ventures, his heart pounding in his chest. Now or never, if he’s reading Clint correctly. He catches Clint’s fingers with his own, realizing too late that he’s used his left hand, the pressure sensors registering that he’s holding warm flesh, but it’s not the same as his right, and even worse, what if Clint thinks he’s being threatened?

He doesn’t have time to panic over the metal hand and everything it represents. Clint twists his hand in Bucky’s and winds his fingers through the metal ones, squeezing gently before letting go.

“That your way of askin’ if you can get me alone, Buck?” Clint asks with a wink, “’Cause you name the time and place, man. I’m there.”

With that, Clint rises to his feet and pads over to the other side of the rooftop just as Bucky’s comm beeps for their hourly rounds. Bucky blinks rapidly, running and rerunning Clint’s words over in his mind and absently rubbing his metal hand with his right one. Did he actually just get propositioned?

He eyes Clint’s ass as the man saunters away and lets out a breath. Pushing his hair out of his face, he watches him prowl the rooftop for a moment longer before turning back to his sniper rifle and settling in with a faint smile.

~*~*~*~

When they finally get back to the compound for debrief, Bucky can tell Clint’s fried. He’s distracted during Bucky’s report, twisting his chair around at every noise, and completely checks out when Steve and Fury start arguing over possible drop locations.

Bucky rolls his chair closer and nudges Clint’s boot with his own to get his attention. He’s always been decent with languages, but he thinks carefully about the gestures and grammar, picturing them in his mind before slowly signing them. It’s crucial he gets it right, that he lets Clint know he gives a shit about him and making his life that little bit easier.

Clint’s eyes widen, an unreadable expression crossing his face for a split second before the corners of his eyes crinkle and he signs back that he’s okay, he’s tired, he wants pizza. His boot taps Bucky’s back and rests there, a ridiculous thing for Bucky’s heart to skip a beat over, but everything Clint does nowadays has that effect.

At the head of the table, Steve and Fury’s yelling reach a fever pitch, raising in volume until Clint’s wincing and fiddling with his aids. Bucky’s seen him do it before, but he’s never really _seen_ it until now, and he’s annoyed, both with himself and with their colleagues. SHIELD obviously knows about Clint’s hearing and hell, Tony Fucking Stark himself designed the hearing aids, so Stevie sure as shit knows about them, but Clint’s always the butt of jokes, the guy who can’t sit still to save his life.

It’s insulting, now that Bucky understands.

“Hey,” he barks, tapping his left hand on the desk. “One at a fuckin’ time, fellas. If you’re just gonna harp on each other, me an’ Barton are gonna go pack it in.”

Stevie positively _gapes_ at him and Bucky can practically see the gears whirring in his big dumb head.

“Excuse me?” Fury snaps, his eyebrow raising over the patch as he crosses his arms behind his back. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Barnes. You’ll stay here until this debrief is over; SHIELD is still running this mission, not the Avengers.”

“Then stop yellin’ at each other and get to the fuckin’ point,” Bucky growls, throwing his best Winter Soldier expression on. “Or is this how we conduct meetings now? Just a free for all?”

Fury’s jaw snaps shut and he exchanges a glance with Steve. “Dismissed, Barnes,” he growls. “You and Barton get lost. Rogers, a word in private, if I may.”

Clint is out of his seat before Bucky can even register Fury’s words. “Awesome. Later, Cap. Fury, pleasure, as always.” He turns on his heel and, with a quick look at Steve, Bucky chases after him.

“Barton! You just gonna head back to Bed-Stuy?” Bucky asks as he catches up with Clint’s long strides. “Or are you gonna stick around for a little bit?”

Clint hits the button on the elevator and gives Bucky a quick once over. He rubs his hand over his face and sighs. “I’ve got a room here. I’ll probably head back to Brooklyn tomorrow after Nat gets back and yells at me,” he says.

The elevator door _pings_ and slides open and Clint steps in, raising an eyebrow at Bucky. He holds his arm against the door, preventing it from closing. “You comin’ up? Or you gonna go brood in Cap’s quarters?”

Blinking in surprise, Bucky quickly joins Clint. He’s still not entirely sure how to read where their dynamic is; there’s a mutual attraction there, he’s fairly sure, but he’s not going to act on it now, not with Clint so exhausted and clearly hitting sensory overload.

He’s never been in Clint’s quarters before, and he’s not sure what he expected, but it’s not… whatever this is. He glances around as Clint unlocks the door and they step inside, surprised at the complete lack of anything that’s _Clint_ in the spacious studio. The rooms are almost sterile, clearly rarely used, and everything remains the standard issue SHIELD items Bucky himself had been given when he was assigned to the compound. Bucky expected a disaster zone, arrows, purple décor, hell, even pizza boxes everywhere, but nothing like this.

“You, uh, you don’t really stay here often, do you?” Bucky asks, hanging his tac jacket up on the hook by the door. There’s a fine layer of dust on the table by the door and, judging by Clint’s frown, there’s not much in the fridge.

“Nah, if I’m here, I’m usually visiting with Nat or napping on the roof,” Clint says with a sigh, pulling a couple beers out of the fridge and popping the caps on the granite countertop. “Bed-Stuy’s more my speed lately. I like my tenants, I’ve got my dog, I’ve got Katie-Kate to make fun of me.”

Bucky signs his thanks, noting Clint’s resultant smile that reaches his eyes a little more than usual, and takes the beer. He moves over to the other side of the counter and looks around, trying to find something of Clint in the apartment and finding nothing. “Sometimes you just need a break,” he murmurs, taking a long pull of the beer. At least it’s cold, if nothing else. “Can’t blame you for that.”

Clint’s watching him carefully, his own beer ignored on the counter. His expression is guarded, something closed off and careful, a drastic change from their surveillance detail and from the debrief. It’s hard to get a read on him and Bucky’s gonna get whiplash from the mixed signals he’s getting.

“What would you pick?” he asks abruptly, deciding just to take the chance, trying to prevent Clint from closing off more. “Vacation. All expenses paid and all that shit,” he clarifies at Clint’s baffled look.

The bottle cap dances across the back of Clint’s knuckles and Bucky attempts to hide his interest behind his beer bottle. Clint flips the cap, catches it, rolls it again. “Nowhere classy,” he says with a faint smirk. “I could do France though. Eat some fancy ass food, see the night life.” He flips the cap to Bucky. “Maybe learn something about art.”

Bucky catches the cap, heat flushing down his neck at Clint’s raised eyebrow. With anyone other than Clint, Bucky would have made his move already, but Clint continues to throw him off balance in all the best ways. He holds Clint’s eye contact, curious, keeping his body language open and receptive.

Setting down his beer, Clint pads around the counter, stepping into Bucky’s space. He signs something, his hands deliberate and smooth, but Bucky doesn’t recognize some of the gestures.

Frustrated, Bucky asks him to repeat in sign, hoping something will trigger his memory. Learning ASL has come decently easily to him, but Hydra’s constant wiping of his memory has left him with holes, with spaces where things just drop out sometimes. He’s not sure if he’s forgotten these particular signs or if he simply hasn’t learned them yet, but he commits them to memory anyway, spurred on by Clint’s intense gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky finally says, shaking his head and signing his apology as he says it. “Ain’t that good yet.”

Clint doesn’t step back and his eyes dart to Bucky’s lips and back up. He brushes Bucky’s hair out of his face, his fingers lingering at Bucky’s jawline. “You’ll get there,” he says quietly, taking Bucky’s hands. He tugs at Bucky’s fingers until they relax, then shapes each hand and presses them into his chest. “Come back and tell me what that means and maybe I’ll tell you some more shit about my dream vacation.”

Bucky blinks rapidly, Clint’s breath still warm on his face even as he’s released. His hands are letters, a B, definitely, but the first he’s unsure of, and not for the first time, he kicks himself for trying to learn the more practical signs first – stuff that might be useful in missions, quick interactions, mostly things related to Clint himself, if he’s being honest. The letters are simple enough though, and he adds them to the signs he’s determined to look up.

“Gonna hit the showers,” Clint continues, as if the asshole hadn’t just sent Bucky’s blood pressure sky high and set off every nerve in his touch-starved body. “Have a good night, Buck.”

Letting out an unsteady breath, Bucky nods, downing the last of his beer. “Yeah, see you around, Barton. Good mission,” he replies, kicking himself for not just grabbing Clint when he had the chance. He signs his goodbye, awkwardly spelling out Clint’s name and probably getting a letter or two wrong.

Clint’s smile merely widens and he winks just before Bucky leaves the apartment.

~*~*~*~

The next time Clint’s at the compound is the following weekend. Bucky’s spent every spare minute studying sign, even going as far as to ask Natalia to try to hold a few simple conversations with him – something she’d been endlessly amused by.

It’s the monthly Game Night at the compound and Stark’s already two sheets to the wind when Bucky makes his way downstairs to the rec room. He and Lang are arguing about something that goes way over Bucky’s head, with Dr. Banner sipping his tea and interjecting quiet statements in dramatic contrast to Luis’ loud hype.

Wilson tenses as Bucky nods a greeting, but returns it with some semblance of civility. They’ll get there. He can’t really blame him for the hostility and kind of admires the fella for it if he’s being honest, even if he does get a little bit of a kick out of provoking him.

Clint’s sprawled out on the couch, his long limbs draped over the back of the couch. He’s got his head on Natalia’s lap, the two of them trying to explain whatever movie’s on the big screen television to Stevie.

Catching Clint’s eye, Bucky signs a greeting and asks him if he wants a beer. From the huge smile that lights up Clint’s face, it’s the right thing to do and Bucky can’t help the grin that appears on his own. He snags a couple beers from the cooler and shoves at Steve’s shoulder in greeting, gesturing for him to move over on the other couch.

“Really, Natalia? You got stuck babysittin’ these two punks tonight?” he jokes, popping the cap off Clint’s beer with his metal hand and passing it over to him.

“I’ll take one if you take the other,” Natalia murmurs, rolling her eyes affectionately at Clint as he spills some of his beer when he sits upright.

Clint sucks the dripping beer off the neck of the bottle and Bucky’s heartrate spikes enough that Steve has to be able to hear it. “Do we get to pick our babysitters? ‘Cause Bucky brought me beer, so I kinda want dibs.”

“On the beer or on Buck?” Steve asks with that stupid fucking smile of his and Bucky kicks him in the shins.

“Both?”

Natalia snorts and pats Clint’s knee. “Don’t be greedy and don’t make me get you a bib.”

Stark yells something about the couch being expensive to steam clean and Clint raises his middle finger in the general direction of Stark’s voice.

“I’m usually pretty good at swallowing, don’t insult me, Nat,” he says with a wink in Bucky’s direction and Bucky realizes he’s possibly the only one not in on the joke. “Bucky doesn’t mind babysitting me anyway, right?”

God, end him now, his mind is rapidly going through various scenarios that involve Clint’s lips and swallowing and he really needs someone to change the fuckin’ subject. He can feel Stevie’s eyes on him and Natalia’s bemused gaze and he manages to cough a quick “yeah, no problem” into his beer before he embarrasses himself further.

Rhodes joins them in front of the tv, flopping down into an overstuffed armchair and promptly getting into an argument with Clint about bounty hunters. Bucky tunes them out for the most part – unlike Steve, he’s seen Star Wars and doesn’t really have a huge interest in science fiction anyway – and sips his beer, studying the way Clint twists and turns to listen and talk to everyone. He’s animated in a way Bucky hasn’t really noticed before, talking with his hands, his entire body emoting and moving as he speaks.

“Y’know, you can just take a picture now, Buck,” Steve murmurs, dropping his shoulder and slouching into Bucky’s side. “Put it right next to your bed and-“

Bucky elbows Steve hard in the ribs with his left arm and shrugs innocently as Clint’s head snaps around at Steve’s wheezing gasp. “You were the one who had those drawings of all those pretty girls by your bed, if I remember right,” he replies casually. “I didn’t need drawings or pictures when I had the real thing.”

Steve coughs into his hand and takes a drink of his beer. He raises an eyebrow at Bucky and settles himself again, mirroring times from long ago when they’d curl up by the fire at Bucky’s ma’s. “That your way of sayin’ you’re gonna finally make a move? You’ve been swooning for months now; it’s not like you.”

Bristling a little at the implication, Bucky grunts and adjusts his arm to drape over Steve’s shoulders and ruffles his hair. “Just because I ain’t jumpin’ into bed right away doesn’t mean I’m swooning. I want to be sure and it’s not like I’m the same guy I used to be,” he murmurs, trying to keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

“You still deserve to be happy though,” Steve argues, the same argument they’ve had since Bucky’s memories started to return. “And I haven’t seen you this sweet on someone since… what was her name? Betty?”

Bucky groans, tilting his head back against the couch and shutting his eyes. “Beatrice. Blue eyes I could get lost in, man, and she was smarter than all the other gals gave her credit for.” The memory comes up surprisingly easily, her saucy wink as Bucky invited her to dance, the way her pretty blonde hair framed her strong features. She hadn’t been like the other women Bucky’d chased after; she’d been something special.

“Gender aside, you’ve got a type, pal,” Steve laughs, clinking his beer bottle against Bucky’s.

He’s not wrong, but it’s infuriating when Stevie’s right, so Bucky merely grunts and finishes off his beer.

Stark eventually comes over to collect Steve to rope him into a billiards game and Bucky’s able to turn his attention to Clint without having an audience. It’s noisy enough in the room that Clint’s sufficiently distracted and doesn’t notice Bucky’s staring; Natalia does though, and wordlessly raises an eyebrow at him before pointedly looking away and sipping her wine.

Clint finally catches him looking when he gets up to get another beer. He trails his fingertips along Bucky’s shoulders as he walks by and tilts his head in an unspoken question.

Thinking for a second, Bucky asks what Clint wants in sign, realizing too late he’s signed the equivalent of _“how do you want me”_ versus _“what do you want me for”_ and it’s too late to take it back. Bucky’s cheeks flush at the implications, which sure as hell aren’t lost on Clint.

_“Remember the question?”_ Clint signs back, letting his eyes roam over Bucky’s form as he leads them to the kitchen island.

The letters, Bucky remembers, and the quick gestures Clint had shaped his hands into. He rubs his fingers together absently and nods. “J.B.; me, right?” he asks, signing the letters and indicating himself. “James Barnes.”

Clint’s grin broadens and he leans a hip against the fridge. “That’s the easy part. I was gonna head back upstairs in a little bit; I’m starting to get a headache and know you’ve got a social limit too. You gonna answer my question from last week first though?”

Nothing to lose, except if his research was wrong and he’s totally misread the question and all the signals Clint’s been giving him. Bucky steps closer than strictly necessary, keeping steady eye contact with Clint, and brings his hands up to sign. _“Yes. I want you, Hawkeye,”_ he replies, using Clint’s name sign he’s managed to glean from watching his interactions with Natasha and some hasty research.

_“Upstairs,”_ Clint signs, swallowing heavily, his eyes darkening a bit. He looks over Bucky’s shoulder to Natalia and signs something that Bucky only gets bits and pieces of – _“distract”_ and _“hours”_ and the finger spelling for Steve and Bucky’s pretty sure that last sign is something obscene.

Natalia rolls her eyes and mouths at them to go. Bucky’s probably going to have to buy her a new set of throwing knives in thanks.

Clint tugs him into the elevator by his belt loops, waiting patiently for the doors to close before pushing him against the wall. His face is almost unreadable, his eyes searching Bucky’s face as he presses in close. It’s both unnerving and incredibly arousing and Bucky swallows heavily and calmly waits for Clint’s lead.

The doors open and Clint backs into the hallway, checking both directions before gesturing for Bucky to follow.

Bucky needs to say something, anything, to cut the tension, but he’s afraid anything he has to say will ruin whatever this moment is. It almost feels like a test – hell, the past week has felt like a test – and he falls back on old Army habits of sitting back and following orders.

Once inside Clint’s quarters, Bucky watches as Clint kicks his shoes off and fiddles with his hearing aids, some of the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders melting away.

_“Again,”_ Clint signs, licking his lips. _“Tell me again. Speak.”_

Bucky’s feet step closer to Clint of their own accord. He tilts his head up, close enough to kiss him. “I want you,” he says, his signing more halting as he struggles with the word order. “Hawkeye. Clint. However you’ll have me.”

Clint’s eyes are on Bucky’s lips and he gently takes Bucky’s hands in his own. He’s the only one who’s never hesitated about the metal of his left hand, touching whichever arm is more convenient on missions, and here, even like this, he twines his fingers through Bucky’s metal ones with easy confidence. It pulls at something in Bucky’s chest that he doesn’t really want to examine for too long, not right now.

Not when Clint is kissing him like this.

It takes Bucky’s brain a second to reboot when Clint’s lips press against his. He bites back a groan and reciprocates, softly at first but he doesn’t hesitate to press in deeper when Clint’s mouth opens against his.

Bucky’s back hits the boring grey wall and Clint’s hands sink into his hair, tugging his head back and angling it up so Clint can take advantage of his height. A tongue flicks the roof of Bucky’s mouth, over his teeth, sweeps over his lower lip, and Clint Barton may just be the best kisser Bucky’s ever met.

“If it’s not clear,” Clint pants into Bucky’s mouth, speaking quickly between kisses. “I want you in every kind of way you can think of.”

Bucky _does_ groan this time, sliding his hands under Clint’s t-shirt to map out the skin of his back, tracing the multitude of scars that the delicate sensors of his metal hand can feel. “Happy to oblige,” he bites out, hissing an oath as Clint finds the sensitive spot on his neck just under his jaw. “How’re your ears?”

He can feel Clint smile against his throat. “Always lookin’ out for me, Buck,” he says, the movement of his lips drawing shivers out of Bucky. “Better. Easier to focus on one person.”

“Good, ‘cause I’d hate for you to miss all the sounds we’re gonna be makin’,” Bucky retorts, sliding his right hand down to Clint’s ass and squeezing firmly.

Laughing, Clint draws back and presses his forehead against Bucky’s. “You’re corny as shit, man; did that really work in the forties?”

Emboldened, Bucky rocks his hips against Clint’s, smiling at the hardness he can feel through their jeans. “Seems to be workin’ right now,” he murmurs, ghosting his lips over the scars around Clint’s ears, keeping his voice and breathing quiet enough that they won’t overdo it so close to Clint’s aids. “Unless that’s a gun in your pocket.”

“No, no, I thrive on corniness, really. You start in with the puns and I might just have to blow you.”

Christ. That thought, coupled with Clint’s earlier entendre has Bucky’s jeans suddenly uncomfortably tight. He tangles his left hand in Clint’s short hair and tugs him down to slot their lips together again, an inhuman noise ripping from his throat.

Clint’s hands wander under his shirt, his deft fingers tracing over his abdominal muscles, scratching along the lines of his hipbones just above his waistband. They linger a bit at a particularly large bullet scar just below his ribcage, one from before the serum, lightly touching the uneven flesh and making Bucky shiver in his arms.

It’s almost strange to experience Clint like this: calm and deliberate and utterly confident. He’s used to the cocky asshole, the wisecracking klutz, the impatient daredevil, and while rationally he knows this side of Clint has always existed, Bucky’s never really seen it first-hand.

He whines into Clint’s mouth as fingers trail along his waistband, dipping just below but never where Bucky wants them.

Clint hums a laugh, drawing his head back and making Bucky chase him. Their lips meet in an almost sloppy kiss before Clint breaks it again and tugs Bucky’s shirt over his head. He steps back, his fingers hooked into Bucky’s belt loops and just stares, his gaze leisurely drifting over Bucky’s bare torso.

Shit. Bucky’s heart sticks in his throat when Clint’s eyes pause on the twisted, mangled flesh of his left shoulder. The plates in his arm shift and click quietly as he instinctively moves his arm behind his back and turns to try to hide the hideous scars.

“No,” Clint says abruptly, his hands moving to Bucky’s hips and turning him back. “No, Buck, no hiding. You have absolutely nothin’ to hide, man.”

Bucky snorts and looks down, his hair falling into his face until Clint pushes it back.

“You’re… _shit_ , Buck. You’re gorgeous. Ain’t nothing about you that isn’t sexy as hell,” Clint says, his voice rough. He tilts Bucky’s chin up, forcing him to make eye contact. “You went through some shit that I can’t even begin to imagine. Be mad as hell. Hit back at them. But never, _ever_ ,” he signs for emphasis, “be ashamed of yourself, okay?”

It’s not even the scarring itself that Bucky’s nauseated by every time he looks in the mirror; the arm itself represents so much pain and violence and horror that he doesn’t know how Clint can even bear to look at that crimson star on his shoulder, much less touch it. He knows what atrocities the Winter Soldier committed.

Maybe he’s not ready for this level of intimacy yet. Maybe his stupid therapist is right. Maybe –

Clint tugs his shirt over his head and unbuckles his pants, letting them drop to the floor.

Bucky’s mental self-flagellation stops abruptly, like a record skipping, and he tries not to drool as he stares at the bare expanse of skin.

There’s a few patches of skin on Clint’s legs where the hair grows almost twisted, lines criss-crossing the muscular calves and thighs; skin grafts, Bucky realizes. He smiles a little at the small red Black Widow symbols decorating Clint’s boxers and tries not to focus too much on what’s tenting those boxers, instead dragging his gaze up to the sharp hipbones and ridges of Clint’s abs. There’s a few obvious gunshot scars on Clint’s torso, lots of tiny silver slashes, one nasty, jagged slice that looks newer along the right side of his ribcage and that one _has_ to have a story behind it.

“See?” Clint murmurs, turning slowly around so Bucky can see the roadmap of scars along his back. “They tell the story of where we’ve been and what we’ve overcome. Some of us just have more chapters than others.”

Bucky reaches out and traces some of the older scars along Clint’s shoulderblades, frowning as he wonders just how old some of these are.

Turning back around, Clint hesitates for a moment and removes his aids, the full extent of the damage to his ears on display. “I’ve always been hard of hearing,” he says slowly, his voice quiet. He gestures to his ears, using his empty hand to do quick little half signs. “Shitbag called The Clown got rid of the rest. Arrows,” he explains, swallowing heavily as his voice chokes a little. “Bam. Both ears. Good thing I already knew sign, eh?”

Bucky feels nauseous at the words, the images coming all too clearly to his mind. He wraps his arms around Clint’s waist and pulls him close, burying his face into Clint’s throat. It’s not practical to shield Clint from the world, he knows that; the man isn’t made of glass and he’s not going to stop hurling himself into danger any time soon, but it twists Bucky’s heart to think of all Clint has obviously suffered.

“Hey, hey,” Clint says quietly, nuzzling into Bucky’s hair and taking a deep breath. “No feelin’ bad for me, okay? We’re badasses; we don’t need pity.”

“I’m not,” Bucky begins, only to snap his mouth shut when he remembers Clint’s aids are out and Clint pulls back to watch his lips. _“No pity,”_ he signs, emphasizing the negative. _“You… beautiful,”_ he finally manages, throwing in a few more gestures to make sure Clint knows he’s meaning on every level.

Clint cups his cheek, his thumb rubbing over Bucky’s stubble as he smiles and kisses him softly. “If you think the arm’s gonna stop me, you don’t know how much Terminator I used to watch,” he jokes.

Rolling his eyes and huffing a laugh, Bucky gives Clint’s shoulder a light shove. Maybe one day they’ll have a real heart-to-heart about all the shit Stevie’s been begging Bucky to talk about, that his therapist would probably cry if he opened up about.

Maybe they wouldn’t need to. Maybe Clint just gets it.

Warm lips fasten themselves to the juncture of Bucky’s neck and shoulder as Clint’s hands settle at his hips again. Bucky hisses a breath as Clint’s teeth find a particularly sensitive spot and he tilts his head to give him better access, his hands roaming across the smooth skin of Clint’s back. He whines in frustration when Clint moves down and across the top of his shoulder.

The anxiety returns, churning knots deep in his gut when Clint’s lips brush the rough edge of the layered scar tissue on his left shoulder. He tightens his grip, jerking back slightly before he gets control of himself.

It’s just Clint. If he were gonna bail, he’d have done it by now.

Bucky’s still in his own head when he realizes Clint’s stopped his kissing and is just stroking his hands down Bucky’s sides, humming softly under his breath.

“Back with me?”

There must be too long of a gap between Clint’s soft query and Bucky’s nod because Clint reaches over to snag his aids from the small table by the door and fits them carefully back into his ears.

“Here, let’s try this,” Clint says, taking Bucky’s hands in his own and starting to walk backwards into the apartment toward the bedroom. “First, do you want this? We can just chill and watch bad movies and order pizza, man; I want you any way I can have you, but I’m not in any rush.”

“I want you; fuck, I’ve wanted you for a while now,” Bucky says firmly. He glances at his left hand and shrugs the metal shoulder. “It’s just… it’s a lot. I overthink sometimes.”

Clint nods and continues his backward pace to the bedroom. “I get that. I’ve been there.”

They enter the bedroom and it’s just as plain as the rest of the quarters, more greys and blacks and Bucky has a sudden urge to know what Clint’s actual bedroom looks like. He’s picturing purple sheets, likely rumpled and unmade, clothes everywhere, messy and comfortable – just like the man himself.

“Do you trust me?”

Bucky looks up sharply as Clint sits on the bed, his hands still held gently. “If I can trust you to have my back, I’d think I’d trust you here,” he replies, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“No, it’s…” Clint pauses and runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in every direction. “I want to help you just not think for a bit, but I need you to trust me to be able to do that. I just want you to focus on feeling good and block out everything else.”

“What about you?”

Clint taps his aids with an impish grin. “Part of trusting me. I’ll get just as much out of it, don’t worry. You just let go and let me do the heavy lifting.” He leans back on the bed, legs spread lewdly, the grin and humour lighting up his face. Patting the bed next to him, he blows Bucky a kiss. “Plus you get all _this_ , and man, I don’t know how you’d pass that up.”

Chuckling despite himself, Bucky shakes his head, a smile stretching across his face. “Yeah, I trust you; God knows why, but I do,” he laughs, kneeling on the bed and running his hands up Clint’s muscular calves to his thighs.

“ _Awesome_ ,” Clint breathes, and in a second, Bucky finds himself on his back with a smug looking Clint poised above him. “You’re overdressed and you’ve _gotta_ tell me your workout routine to get thighs like these, man, they’re a crime.”

Bucky’s pants are quickly divested of and he lets out a surprised moan as heat sears across his inner thigh. Lips and tongue attack that spot and Clint’s hand runs up the opposite thigh to the juncture of Bucky’s leg and groin, just hovering there like an asshole and making Bucky’s breath come in quick pants. He bites his lip, trying to contain the needy little noises that threaten to escape from his throat.

A sharp bite frees those noises and Bucky’s right hand sinks into Clint’s hair, his legs falling open as Clint sucks a bruise into the spot he’s just bitten.

“See, that’s what I’m waiting for,” Clint says conversationally, his fingers gently rubbing the flesh just under the seam of Bucky’s plain black boxer-briefs where he’s pushed them up. “Those noises are like music to my… well, aids, but humour the deaf guy for a minute here.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky pants, a breathy little laugh creeping into his voice.

“Nothing ridiculous about my gag reflex though.”

He’s not sure if it’s the super soldier serum or if the mental image of his cock down Clint’s throat that has him harder than he’s been in months. Probably the latter, but the former does tend to work in his favour sometimes. He stares at Clint in something akin to awe, his throat working but the only words he can think of are filthy, Russian, or both.

“You can start begging any time now.”

Bucky does laugh this time and scratches Clint’s scalp until he’s arching his neck like an overgrown cat. “I don’t beg.”

Shrugging, Clint winks at him and fiddles with the waistband of his boxer briefs. “First time for everything,” he says simply, ducking his head and setting to work biting and sucking dark marks into Bucky’s hipbones, attacking every inch of newly exposed skin as he tugs at the underwear.

The single-minded determination Clint displays when he’s on a mission apparently transfers over to the bedroom. He seems to take note of every single hotspot he discovers and attacks it mercilessly with lips, tongue, and teeth, able to straddle the line between pleasure and _too_ much before he’s moving onto the next spot. He’s utterly relentless and Bucky’s left helpless against the onslaught, writhing and gasping under Clint’s talented mouth.

“ _Christ_ , Clint,” Bucky gasps, keening as Clint licks the crease of his thigh and hipbone, his cock finally freed and dripping onto his stomach.

Clint contorts himself on the bed to untangle the underwear from Bucky’s legs without actually removing his mouth for longer than a second. “Just Clint is fine, I’ll even answer to Barton, or if you wanna do some mission roleplay you can totally call me Hawkeye.”

Bucky resists the urge to kick Clint in the head if only because it would mean those sensations would stop, that he’d lose the almost floating feeling he’s drifting toward despite every nerve on fire with pleasure.

Sex hasn’t ever been like this before, even taking Bucky’s swiss cheese memory into account. Hell, Clint’s underwear isn’t even off yet and Bucky doesn’t care, he could do this for hours, even listening to Clint’s brags and bad jokes, it’s just… _comfortable._

He lets his head fall back into the soft pillows, shuts his eyes, his metal hand clenching and unclenching into the bedding while his right hand strokes encouragingly through Clint’s hair.

“There you go, Buck,” Clint murmurs against Bucky’s inner thigh where he’s been lazily trailing open mouthed kisses. His hands feel like they’re everywhere at once, ghosting along Bucky’s thighs and legs, pressing firmer up Bucky’s sides and lower rib cage, his palm heavy and warm against Bucky’s stomach. “Relaxed is a good look on you. Keep in that mindset for me, okay? Just focus on what you feel and what I’m doin’.”

Clint’s tongue finally, _finally_ laves over the tip of Bucky’s cock, swiping down to swirl around the head. His lips wrap around the tip firmly, only half the head in his mouth and Bucky gasps and swears in three languages, remembering his strength as Clint grunts and starts to pull away.

“Sorry, fuck, sorry, Clint,” he pants, rubbing Clint’s scalp where he’s pulled his hair and lifting his head off the pillow.

Blue eyes glitter with amusement up at him, one hand moving off his hip to sign an _“ok”_ before it curls around the shaft of his cock and gives an experimental stroke. Clint’s still suckling lightly at the tip, his lips never dipping below the head, his tongue keeping a steady rhythm and pressure along the underside. His thumb rubs at Bucky’s foreskin, testing the sensitivity.

Bucky watches him work, completely enraptured. Sure, he’s always liked to watch his partners suck him off, but they’ve never seemed like they’ve actually enjoyed it before. There’s no question of that with Clint, who shifts between Bucky’s legs so he can squeeze himself through his boxers as he makes quiet pleased sounds and finds a comfortable pace, his lips sealed around Bucky’s cock and beginning to bob his head up and down.

God, he’s not going to last like this.

He’s moaning with every exhale now, Clint’s wicked tongue wrenching the sounds out of him with every upstroke. Every time he thinks he’s hit Clint’s limit, Clint just takes more of him into his mouth, starting to pause for a second with Bucky’s cock deep in his throat before pulling back off; fast, fast, pause, then slow up back to the head, and holy _shit_ he hadn’t been kidding about that gag reflex because Bucky’s convinced he doesn’t actually _have_ one.

“Please,” Bucky whines, taken aback at the sheer desperation in his voice. “Please, Clint.” So much for not begging, but Bucky’s never been so close to coming so fast and Clint seems to know it, bringing him right to the edge and backing off until Bucky’s a wrecked and panting mess.

He’s thrusting shallowly into Clint’s mouth, moving purely on instinct, his abdominal muscles contracting as heat builds low in his groin. Fuck, he’s not going to last much longer, not with the way the head of his cock hits the back of Clint’s throat and he uses his tongue and lips and even the very faintest flash of teeth to work Bucky over.

“Clint, I’m gonna come,” Bucky gasps, holding himself back and frantically tapping at Clint’s head and shoulders in warning. “Clint, _please._ ”

Clint glances up at him, his eyes dark and hooded with arousal. He lifts his free hand up from where it’s been stroking his own cock and signs _“go”_ with a thumbs up.

Nearly sobbing with relief, Bucky thrusts once and comes, crying out Clint’s name as his left hand shreds the rumbled sheets he’s been digging into.

Humming his approval, Clint swallows around Bucky’s cock, gently nursing him through the aftershocks and rubbing the base with one hand. He moves with the little abortive jerks of Bucky’s hips, easing the suction and pressure of his lips until he’s just barely sliding them over the hypersensitive flesh.

“That was…” There aren’t really words for what that was, even if Bucky’s brain were working at full capacity. He collapses back bonelessly into the mattress, hissing a whine as Clint shifts to pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to his cock, his tongue flicking out to the sensitive head.

“Is this too uncomfortable?” Clint murmurs, the movement of his lips against Bucky’s oversensitive skin sending jolts of almost painful pleasure down his spine. “Cause I’ve got this theory.”

How the fuck does he sound so nonchalant? Sure, his voice is a little huskier, but Bucky’s not sure if he’d even be capable of speaking if he’d just given a blowjob of that calibre.

“Yeah?” Bucky manages, the slight puffs of Clint’s breath against his cock slowly driving him insane. He whines, reaches out for Clint, and makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat when Clint moves away.

“Yeah. Like, this super soldier serum’s got me interested,” Clint continues in between kisses to Bucky’s calves. “You’ve got a really fast healing factor, right? Does that apply to everything?”

What the fuck is he going on about? Why doesn’t he come up where Bucky can reach him? He’s still hard, his cock heavy between his legs. Bucky wants to see him come, wants to watch him fall apart, but that’s apparently not on Clint’s agenda for now.

Long fingers wrap around his spent cock, pulling the foreskin back and making Bucky keen. It’s almost painful with how sensitive he is right now, but it’s so _good_ and he arches up into Clint’s hand.

“Do you think you can come again?”

Bucky blinks stupidly down at Clint. “I… probably?” He’s really not sure, it’s never come up – so to speak. He knows some nights after he’s come he stays hard until he finally gives up and takes a cold shower, so he’s pretty sure his refractory period is likely affected by the serum, but what about Clint?

A broad smile lightens Clint’s face and he surges upward with a muttered “awesome” and kisses Bucky fiercely. His legs tangle with Bucky’s, his dick slotting neatly into the groove of Bucky’s hips.

Bucky can taste himself on Clint’s tongue and it’s enough to get his cock to catch up as he licks into Clint’s mouth, both hands tangled into his hair and preventing him from moving away again. He rocks his hips up, the friction of their bodies almost too much, but Clint’s heavy and warm on top of him and he just can’t get _enough._

“Ah, ah, nope,” Clint scolds, grabbing Bucky’s wrist when he reaches down to touch. “This is still about you, Buck. Just lay back and enjoy the ride, capiche?”

“I thought I was. What if I want you?”

Clint sighs and props himself up on an elbow, his free hand lightly stroking down to Bucky’s balls. “If you can hold off coming again until I tell you to, I’ll let you help jerk me off, how’s that?”

The thought of Clint sitting above him, head thrown back in pleasure as he comes all over Bucky’s stomach flits through Bucky’s brain and he stumbles over his words in his haste to agree.

“Good,” Clint laughs, kissing him quickly. “Just tell me if you need me to stop.” He trails his lips down Bucky’s jaw, bites at his earlobe, and steadily moves south down Bucky’s neck, pausing at all the spots that wring cries out of his throat.

Clint threads his fingers through Bucky’s, the warm flesh against the metal sending error signals to some part of his brain that still belongs to the Winter Soldier. He starts to twist his hand away when Clint worries at his pulse point with his teeth and gives his cock a firm stroke.

“No, no hiding from me, Buck. I wanna see all of you,” Clint says firmly, settling his lips to the very edge of the scarring at Bucky’s shoulder. “I wanna taste all of you.”

Christ, this is how Bucky’s going to die. He pants out heavy breaths and moans, his fingers clenching and unclenching around Clint’s, the small plates in his fingers shifting and clicking with every flex of artificial muscles. His cock is hard and dripping again, sliding against Clint’s with every buck of his hips and twist of Clint’s wrist.

Clint’s almost reverent with Bucky’s scars, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses along the mangled flesh. The skin there is more sensitive, and it doesn’t take much before Bucky’s a trembling mess in Clint’s arms from the dual sensations on his shoulder and cock.

The sensors in his metal shoulder register the heat and pressure before Bucky can even comprehend what Clint’s doing. The gears hum and buzz under the plates as Bucky stiffens and Clint freezes, murmuring quiet nonsense against the metal and dropping light, barely there kisses.

The world doesn’t end. Clint doesn’t recoil in disgust. Completely the opposite, in fact; he softly kisses each plate down to Bucky’s elbow, then lifts the arm, their fingers still folded tightly together. He’s meticulous in his attentions: not a single metal plate is skipped and he presses his lips to the pad of each of Bucky’s fingers and finally to his palm.

The sensors in the metal are going haywire, struggling to process the information and send it to Bucky’s brain. He’s helpless to do anything but whine out Clint’s name and arch into him, trying to get as close as possible. When Clint starts practically worshipping the mess of scarring on the top of his ribcage with his lips, Bucky’s brain shorts out entirely.

“Let go,” Clint demands. “Now.”

He comes with a shout, coating Clint’s hand and cock and practically sobbing into the top of Clint’s head, the second orgasm wrenched out of him with almost painful force.

“That’s it, Buck; you did awesome. I’m so proud of you,” Clint purrs, sitting up and straddling Bucky’s hips. His voice is definitely deeper this time, rough with emotion or arousal or both, judging by the way his cock drips onto Bucky’s groin and the wetness at the corners of his eyes. “Thanks for letting me do that.”

Bucky grunts out something that might be English and signs a shaky _“you’re welcome.”_ He runs his hands up and down Clint’s thighs, smiling as it pulls a happy groan out of him. _“You next,”_ he fingerspells lazily.

“Mmm, yeah,” Clint laughs, licking his fingers clean and grinning at Bucky’s weak groan. “But trust me, man; you have definitely not been having all the fun here,” he says, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking up with a twist of his wrist.

Pushing himself up on his left arm, Bucky threads his free hand into Clint’s hair and slides his palm over the side of his face to cup his cheek. He kisses Clint gently, swallowing each stilted gasp that slips from the man’s mouth.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing Clint’s cheekbones and over each eye and finally pressing his forehead against Clint’s so he can watch as Clint jacks himself off.

Clint bites the inside of his lip, the first sign he’s losing control since the whole thing started. Sweat drips down his chest, the muscles of his biceps standing out in stark relief. He pants harshly, and when Bucky looks up again, he’s caught by those bright blue eyes.

“ _Buck,”_ Clint gasps out, his eyes squeezing shut and his head dropping to Bucky’s shoulder as he comes with a full-bodied shudder. It’s a beautiful sight, one Bucky hopes to get a repeat viewing of as much as possible.

Clint slumps against Bucky’s chest with a pleased noise. He’s boneless and heavy, happily nuzzling into Bucky’s neck.

Taking his weight, Bucky adjusts Clint on his chest and lays down, running his hand through Clint’s hair and basking in the warmth of skin on skin. They can clean up later, right now Bucky just wants this – this peaceful afterglow, the silence only broken by their breathing and the soft brush of their lips together.

Post-coital Clint is dopily affectionate, sloppy with his kisses, preferring to sign than speak. Even his signing is lazy though, and he has to repeat himself or slur a few words for Bucky to get it.

In short: Clint Barton is pretty fuckin’ adorable and Bucky wants to enjoy every last second of it he can get.

He figures they’ve probably got at least an hour or two more of peace before Steve’s nosiness gets the better of him, anyway.

~*~*~*~

“Hey, Buck?”

The wind blows Bucky’s hair into his face as he sighs and shifts on the cold rooftop. Every damned stakeout. While he enjoys having company in his nests – and especially Clint’s company – he’s used to working in silence, no matter what sort of extracurricular activities he and Clint have gotten up to.

“I swear to God, if you start yammerin’ on about pizza toppings again,” Bucky sighs, glaring over at Clint, who’s trying to balance an arrow on his fingertip and failing miserably.

“Nah, if I think about how long we’ve been up here I’ll probably start crying, so I was thinking…” Clint flips the arrow and catches it deftly. He shoves it into his quiver and flops over, letting his head fall into Bucky’s lap. “If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?”

“You’ve already asked me that,” Bucky points out, giving into the temptation to run the fingers of his left hand over Clint’s cheek.

Clint waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, but you were totally bullshitting me and trying to get me to shut up. Besides, who actually _wants_ to go to _France_?” he replies. “So I ask _again_ : vacation. Where?”

Bucky makes an adjustment on his rifle and focuses his attention on Clint. He doesn’t really think the location matters at this point; after all, he’s seen most of the world’s major cities over the course of his life – sure, he saw them while brainwashed by Nazis and usually on a murder spree, but he’s _seen_ them.

He thinks about his favourite places: Bucharest, Amsterdam, Bogata, Queensland. None of them have anything in common, he just likes the cities themselves, the people, the culture. He wants to go somewhere to relax and while the thought of Clint on a warm tropical beach is still appealing, he can’t really imagine his arm would go over well in public like that.

He really just wants to go to a place he can call home.

“Brooklyn,” Bucky says after a while, his thumb rubbing over Clint’s jaw, the light stubble feeling strange and comforting to the sensors. “I’d go to Brooklyn.”

Clint tilts his head and reaches up to adjust his aids. “Sorry, must be the wind, ‘cause you can’t possibly want to take a vacation from New York _in_ New York.”

_“Brooklyn,”_ Bucky confirms by fingerspelling. He’s getting faster, the alphabet coming easily to him now.

Sitting up, Clint looks at him curiously, a faint smile appearing at his lips. “Some sort of reliving your glory days? Find all the old haunts of one James Buchanan Barnes?”

Bucky shakes his head and winds his fingers around the chest strap of Clint’s quiver. He tugs him close for a kiss, soft and full of promise. “Not exactly,” he says, kissing the corner of a baffled Clint’s mouth. “I hear Bed-Stuy is kinda nice this time of year?”

“Bed-Stuy,” Clint repeats, pulling back slightly to search Bucky’s eyes. He looks surprised, pleasantly so, and a little nervous. He licks his lips and signs a question: _“my place?”_

Nodding, Bucky signs his eagerness, says his approval in Russian, just to be a little bit extra. “If that ain’t too forward of me,” he says with a grin from over seventy years ago.

Clint’s smile lights up his entire face and he pulls Bucky’s face to his and kisses him firmly. “Yeah, no, Bed-Stuy’s _awesome_ this time of year. I know all the best hot dog vendors and delivery places. I’ll have to show you the dog park too.”

“That a promise?”

Hopping to his feet, Clint offers his hand out to Bucky, who stares in confusion. “Nearest subway line’s just a couple of blocks down and my clothes’ll probably fit you.”

Bucky blinks and gestures to his rifle. “As much as I’m lovin’ the enthusiasm, we promised Fury we wouldn’t let this compromise our missions. We’ve still got a job to do, sweetheart.”

“Oh, right, the mission.” Clint rubs the back of his head with a sheepish grin. “We kinda got the all clear like twenty minutes ago, I just was hoping things would go this way and needed some privacy to ask.”

They got the… what?

Clint apologizes in sign. “Yeah, uh, Nat kind of texted me. The target went out the other side of the building and Nat was able to nab him; he’s in SHIELD custody.”

“So we’ve been sitting up here freezing our asses off so you could invite me to stay at your place?” What if Bucky hadn’t picked Brooklyn? How long would they have stayed up here?

He gets to his feet, eyebrows raised, and steps into Clint’s space.

“Yes? Unless that changes your mind about Bed-Stuy, in which case, no, we were supposed to watch to make sure none of Whatshisface’s associates went out the back.”

An idiot. Bucky’s in love with an idiot.

_“Lucky you’re cute,”_ Bucky signs with a laugh. He kisses Clint, his tongue sweeping over his bottom lip until Clint groans softly against him. “Let me pack up my gear and change into somethin’ a bit more civilian friendly. You gonna let Fury know where we’re going?”

“Nat’s got it covered.”

Bucky owes her at least _two_ new sets of throwing knives at this point. He chuckles quietly and sets to work breaking his rifle down, carefully storing each piece into his kit.

His old life isn’t a possibility, and as much as he hates it, the Soldier isn’t going away either, not fully. If he can’t be Sergeant James Barnes and he can’t be the Winter Soldier, maybe he can be plain old Bucky Barnes: ally of the new SHIELD, Avenger, best friend, sniper, and maybe even partner of Clint Barton.

Maybe Bed-Stuy’s not just a vacation.

Maybe it’s the start of his new life.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr!](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)


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